


The Morals of Killing

by shannonissatan



Series: We Are Not Gods [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Gen, Immortal Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 08:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10963122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannonissatan/pseuds/shannonissatan
Summary: When Geoff hires hostages, there's always a reason behind it. Sometimes it's a challenge, to prove if someone has the courage to join up with the crew. Sometimes it's to make a job a little easier and boost morale, or to let the crew have a little fun.Then again, those hostages never usually get hurt.





	The Morals of Killing

Geoff Ramsey is not a good person. He knows that. He’s a gang leader, a smuggler, an extortionist, a drug dealer. He has countless felonies attached to his name, and countless more under stolen identities from men long dead. Walking down back alleys with a weapon or five for the past few centuries tends to leave a mark, a stain on the memories of those seen only in passing. 

What are morals to such a man? A man older than most who walk the streets he owns, who has gone from pulling teeth for table scraps to killing dozens for a comfortable seat at the top of the food chain. A man who can destroy an ancient forest with his bare hands and come out a god on the other side. 

When you're as old a criminal as Geoff Ramsey, morals are a twisted law. Laws that, when broken, can send your mind into a violent anarchy that breaks you apart from the inside out. 

Do not target the innocent. Keep your end of the bargain, especially when you fuck up. Take responsibility for what you’ve done. Those are the big ones, in his mind. The morals carved into the inside of his skull, the ones that cannot be broken under any circumstances. 

When Geoff walks into the bank, the first thing he does is scope out his target. He's seen photos in the emails, wavy brown hair with a blue streak, wireframed glasses, an old, long scar down her left cheek. A light grey t-shirt and a plaid button-up, like they agreed on. They meet eyes and she nods, then goes about her business, taking money out of a machine near the back of the lobby. 

If he looks closely, Geoff can still see the scab on the back of her hand from an IV drip. It's the only visible evidence, if you don't count the surgical scars she has under her shirt. Expensive, she said, experimental and invasive, but it didn't help. 

She's slowly dying from the inside out. There’s no way to stop it. 

Geoff reaches up and taps his earpiece, sending a short beep out to everyone’s radios. It’s go time. Five seconds, and Michael and Gavin come in the doors with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Michael fires a machine gun into the ceiling as Gavin aims a golden pistol at the lone teller. 

“On the floor, assholes!” Michael yells, flicking his gun toward the centre of the room. “Phones out where we can see ‘em, hands up behind the counter, get in the middle so we can keep an eye on you.” When the security guards step up to stop them they hit the ground screaming, arms and shoulders exploding into a bloody mess as stained glass shards dance along the tiled floor. Jeremy and Ryan, in high-rises on the next block, argue over the radio about whose bullet hit which guard. 

The bank hit was different last time. They haven't done this before. They need to make a point to someone in Austin, is all. Just business and scare tactics.

Gavin hops the counter, smiles at the teller and puts a gentle hand on her cheek. The gun never points away from her chest. 

He whispers in her ear, but Geoff can hear his voice through the mic on his neck. “Just ten thousand, love. Sure you can handle that.” The hand on her cheek moves down to her shoulder and turns her toward the vault, then guides her forward. Geoff hears Gavin's sweet voice even as he disappears, confident and soothing and threatening. Exactly what to say to someone with a gun against their spine, really. Geoff still doesn't quite know how he does it. 

Geoff has been tracking the girl, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She's on the floor to his left with her arms wrapped around her knees, bouncing a pencil between her fingers. He can't see her face behind her hair. 

She doesn't want to see it coming. That was her only request. 

“Did she hit it?” Geoff asks into his earpiece. Gavin scoffs, his voice crackling slightly as the signal struggles through the thick walls of the vault. 

“Course she did. Just doin’ her job, same as us. Choppers should show up in about three minutes, so make your point quick.”

Geoff grabs a phone from the middle of the pile. It’s old and a bit scratched, but in a heavy duty protective case. It won't get hurt any more if its owner drops it in shock. 

“Which one of you owns this thing?” Geoff asks, holding it up in front of his dozen cowering hostages. One of them raises his hand, a college kid in need of a haircut and a sandwich. Geoff tosses the phone at him. 

“Video. Now. Keep it on me.”

They're not breaking the rules. She signed up for this, and she had to be involved with someone shady to find out about it. Not breaking. Just bending. 

“People of Los Santos,” Geoff starts, looking into the camera. He shrugs nonchalantly before firing three rounds into the girl beside him. The first into her chest, the next two through the back of her head. Her glasses break in two when what’s left of her face hits the floor. The blue in her hair disappears into a puddle of red. Geoff tries not to flinch and waits patiently for his cameraman to pick up the phone he’d dropped when the gun went off. “It’s not personal.”

He wrote this speech a week ago. He’s practiced it dozens of times, memorising and tweaking and memorising all over again. It’s drilled into his head, a message to the geniuses in Texas who’ve decided to invade the territory he’s held for decades. The words are effortless at this point. All of his concentration is on keeping his voice steady and even, on ignoring the girl on the floor. He's been an actor before, but this is the hardest role he's played by a long shot. 

By the time the distant wail of sirens makes itself known, Geoff’s finished speaking. He grins and winks at the camera, then walks by and snatches it out of the college kid's hands. He ends the video and shoves the phone in his pocket, then grabs the kid by the back of his shirt and drags him into an empty office and slams the door. 

The kid looks terrified, his back pressed against the door as he stares at the gun in Geoff’s hand. Geoff reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small wad of cash. 

“This,” he says, waving it in the kid's face, “is for you to get a new phone.” He tucks the money into the front pocket of the guy's jeans and reaches into his jacket again. “And this–” another, slightly larger stack of bills “–is for telling the cops that the GPS on the phone I’m taking is busted. We’ll know if you snitch, so don’t be a hero. Deal?”

The kid nods quickly. Geoff shoves the money in with the rest and taps his cheek. “Good boy. Now get back out there before you piss your pants and ruin all that money I just gave you.” Geoff reaches around and opens the door, then gently shoves the guy's shoulder and points him back toward the middle of the room. 

“Let's go!” Michael yells as the sirens grow louder. He hasn't done much other than stand around and look threatening, holding a shiny red submachine gun by the door, but another set of eyes and ears is never too much when dealing with hostages. 

“But me and Jenny here’re havin’ a nice chat,” Gavin protests. When they come out from the vault, Gavin has an arm around the teller’s waist and is no longer pointing his pistol at her, though he is still holding it. She looks a little tense but otherwise relatively calm. Gavin stops her before she can see past one of the corners, keeping her from seeing the blood and gore on the front tile. 

“Gonna want to stay here ‘till someone comes in with a bodybag or two,” he tells her, and Geoff watches as her face pales and she takes a step back. 

“Gavin, quit making friends with the hostages and get your ass in the car,” Ryan says over the radio, clearly annoyed by what he can see through the scope of his rifle. Gavin shoots a middle finger in his general direction, and Ryan responds by shooting the wall next to his head. Gavin flinches and squawks when drywall dust gets in his face. He frowns at the bullet hole before vaulting the counter and letting Michael take his hand and drag him out the front door. 

Geoff keeps his composure, shoulders squared with a smirk and an overconfident stride he learned from Gavin, until the door of their getaway car shuts and he collapses against the seat. As Jack drives them to the safehouse, he’s the only one who doesn’t shoot out the windows at the cops following them. Instead, he lets the pistol in his hand fall between his feet and stares at the blood splatters on the sleeves of his shirt.

* * *

 

He stands at the back of the funeral. He’s shaved, wearing makeup and coloured contacts and an all-black suit except for the tie around his neck that almost perfectly matches the dark blue of the flowers on the closed casket. He’s still paranoid, afraid of being recognised even though he’s staying in the shade of a tree with his head down under his pseudo disguise. He doesn’t want to draw any more attention to this family. 

The package in his pocket feels like it’s filled with lead. He can’t remember the last time he did something like this, though he knows he has before. 

Seven thousand cash, funeral expenses plus a little extra. A letter, addressed to her mother, explaining why this happened and how it came about. An envelope that he hasn’t opened, but has been told contains personal messages to her family. A business card with a phone number and a promise, payments once a month until the total reaches half a million. All of it bundled in heavy paper and tied with thick cotton twine, sealed with green wax in the shape of the star tagged on the streets of Los Santos. 

He doesn't follow them home, instead taking a slightly longer route and arriving after they've already gone inside. When he knocks at the door, it's answered by a young boy with wild hair and a suit that's a little too big for his small frame. He holds out the package and kneels down. 

“I need you to give this to your mom for me, okay?” he asks. “And tell her she doesn't have to be afraid of it.” The boy hides behind the doorframe sheepishly. 

“What's the password?” She told him about this, a safety measure put in place by their parents. The only way her brother would trust a stranger. 

“Butterfly,” Geoff answers. The boy nods once and takes the package. Geoff doesn't mind when he shuts the door in his face; he’s young and scared and doesn't know better. 

When Geoff answers his phone later to a woman who's half screaming at him and half crying, he answers as many questions as he can. Yes, it's real. No, this doesn't put them in debt to the gang. Yes, there's more to the deal–protection, mostly, maybe a few small favours on occasion. 

Yes, she knew what she was getting into. And yes, he feels truly sorry for the family. Her mother says it’s not a surprise that her daughter decided to end it quickly rather than die slowly in a hospital bed. 

By the time the phone call ends, Geoff is crying, too. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is the first time I've ever finished more than one thing for the same series so yay me.
> 
> If you wanna talk about any of this stuff with me or have any questions feel free to shoot me an ask on tumblr (queenvsbarton)


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